Murder Ink

by Lorraine Bartlett

  “Cool. Are you sure I can’t go to Tealicious with you and get those cookies for Roger?”

  “Maybe next time. I don’t want to hold you up. Bye!”

  Regan started walking toward Tealicious, and when she moved her arms, Katie could see that Brad’s name was boldly written upon the envelope Regan carried.

  * * *

  —

  The afternoon was waning when Ray gave a perfunctory knock on Katie’s office door before entering with a bag of vending machine chips and a bottle of water. He closed the door and sat on the chair beside the desk.

  “Show me what you’ve got,” he said tersely.

  “Hello to you, too,” she responded flatly.

  “Come on, Katie. We don’t have all day.”

  Despite his brusque tone, Katie unlocked the desk drawer and took out the solitary pill, setting it on Ray’s open palm.

  Ray squinted at it. “Turn it over. I don’t want to touch it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want my prints on the thing.”

  “But it’s all right for my prints to be on it?” she asked incredulously.

  “You’ve already touched it. Besides, you aren’t a murder suspect.”

  Nudging the offending object with her index finger, Katie turned the pill over so Ray could see the indented numbers on it.

  “That’s oxycodone, all right. This is the dosage typically given only to people who have a tolerance for opioids.”

  Katie’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

  “Anything sixty milligrams and above is prescribed only for those patients who already take opioids because they require higher doses for pain relief. For something like a toothache, you’d be given something much lower . . . say ten or fifteen milligrams.”

  “And how much is this pill?”

  “That one is a hundred and sixty milligrams.”

  She gasped. “That’s . . . that’s a lot!”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  Katie scowled at him. “Do you think someone could be trafficking drugs through Artisans Alley?”

  Ray nodded toward the pill. “Lock that back in your drawer.”

  She did. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I suppose anything is possible, but you need to keep your suspicions to yourself.”

  “No, I don’t! I need to alert the Merchants Association, at the very least. What if—”

  “Leave it alone, Katie. If someone is running drugs through Artisans Alley, and they believe you’re onto them, they’ll kill you. These people don’t mess around. Besides, you could be way off base.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  “Absolutely nothing . . . at least for now. I have a friend with the DEA. I’ll have him casually come by with his dog.” He opened his chips. “It’s a drug dog, but in cases like this, it’s trained to act as a service dog, so no one gets suspicious. Since Artisans Alley is closed on Monday, I’ll see if my friend can come then.”

  “All right.”

  * * *

  —

  Given everything that was on her mind, it was no wonder that Katie started later that afternoon when a woodpecker-like knock rang out on her office door.

  “Come in.” She knew her voice sounded tentative, but she couldn’t help it and was relieved when Sue Sweeney came through the door holding one of her distinctive candy boxes.

  “Hi, there!” Sue gave Katie a bright sunny smile that matched the yellow and white polka-dot scarf tied at her throat. “I’m taking a poll. Would you try my new creation—chocolate fig squares—and vote on them?” She placed the box on Katie’s desk and removed the lid.

  The enticing aroma seemed to permeate Katie’s office and she inhaled deeply.

  “They smell wonderful,” she said, as she plucked a square from the box. “You say they’re chocolate and . . . fig?”

  Sue nodded.

  Katie bit into the square and closed her eyes with delight. “Mmmm!” she breathed and covered her mouth with one hand. “These are amazing!”

  Sue giggled. “Thank you. Hugh adores them . . . or else he’s only saying that to boost my ego. That’s why I wanted to get some additional opinions. Are you giving me your honest opinion?”

  “I am.” Katie swallowed and lowered her hand. “They’re delicious.” She popped the rest of the square into her mouth.

  Sue took out a small notepad and pen, put a single mark inside the pad, and returned both pad and pen to her pocket. “I put you in the yes column.”

  “Darn. I see I spoke too soon,” Katie teased. “I should’ve told you I need another one to make sure.”

  Laughing, Sue offered Katie another square.

  “It sounds as if things are going well with you and Hugh,” Katie said, refraining from eating the treat just yet.

  “They are. He’s a wonderful man.”

  “I’ve asked him to speak at an upcoming Merchants Association meeting about how he uses public speaking to drum up business. His talk at the motorcycle club meeting earlier this week resulted in his selling saddlebags to bikers in droves.”

  “Oh, Hugh is a master marketer,” Sue said. “In fact, it was his idea to have people sample these fig squares. He said it would remind people that I’m here and that I’m innovative.”

  “Good thinking.”

  Hugh seemed to have knowledge on a lot of different things—marketing, acupressure, sewing . . .

  What other skills did he possess?

  Twenty-Four

  It wasn’t until almost quitting time that Katie realized how hungry she was. She called Del’s Diner and placed a to-go order so she could take her meal home and eat it while relaxing in front of the television. She didn’t do that very often, but she felt particularly lazy this evening. She supposed she still hadn’t caught up on her sleep after Thursday’s fiasco.

  Walking into Del’s, Katie got distracted by a squirrel dashing across the sidewalk in front of her. She smiled as she watched the bushy tail disappear behind a cluster of bushes. Still smiling, she turned her attention back to where she was walking, but not in time.

  Paul Fenton grabbed her by the shoulders. “You need to be more careful.”

  She jerked away from him. “And you need to stop putting your hands on me.”

  “Just keeping you from tripping. You have no idea what could happen when you’re not concentrating on your own business rather than”—he nodded toward the bushes—“watching the squirrels. You pay attention to you, Katie. Those squirrels can take care of themselves.”

  With a glare, she stepped around him and walked into Del’s. Her appetite had fled, but it wasn’t the diner’s fault. She paid for her grilled cheese and tomato soup and took them home to languish in the refrigerator. Maybe she’d feel like eating them later.

  She fed the cats and then headed over to Sassy Sally’s. She preferred not being home alone after her encounter with Paul, and she felt that walking to the other end of the Square would do her good to help blow off steam.

  Don was sitting on the porch when she arrived.

  He got to his feet. “Are you all right? You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, stomping up the steps. “Just angry. I ran into Paul Fenton—or, rather, he made it a point to run into me—at Del’s.”

  “Come on in, and let’s get you a glass of wine.” He ushered her into the kitchen.

  Nick came in from the dining room. “Hey, Katie. I knew I heard your voice. What’s going on?”

  “Can’t I come to visit without you two making a federal case out of it?” she asked with a wry grin.

  “Not when your hands are shaking like that,” Nick said.

  “I got irritated when I ran into Paul Fenton a while ago,” Katie said. “Maybe I’m being overly touchy—I’ve had a lot
on my mind this week.”

  She was definitely not being overly touchy, but she didn’t particularly want to discuss Paul Fenton at the moment.

  “Margo and I are buying the Tealicious building, and I’m converting the upstairs into an apartment,” she continued.

  “Congratulations,” Don said, handing her a glass. “That’s wonderful.”

  “Yes, but we know that’s not all you have on your mind,” Nick added. “We heard about Ray Davenport’s arrest.”

  “Has Nona Fiske been here trying to get your support for kicking Ray out of the Victoria Square Merchants Association?”

  “She has.” Don glanced at Nick. “But she won’t get it.”

  “We know Ray is innocent.” Nick shook his head. “I mean, the man dedicated his life to enforcing the law. He’s not going to go off the rails without a darned good reason . . . and Ken Fenton wasn’t a darned good reason.”

  “I can’t image Ray ever going off the rails.” Katie took a drink of the chilled Chardonnay. “He suggested to me last night that he needs to learn everything he can about Ken. I agreed, and I’m trying to help.”

  Nick rolled his eyes. “Of course you are. Sweetheart, sometimes you need to take a step back and let people fend for themselves.”

  “I’m a firm believer in helping my friends fend,” she said, really wishing Nick hadn’t just practically quoted Paul Fenton. “So, sue me. Anyway, I had brunch with Mary Jones this morning, and she was really nice. I get the feeling that Ken was a decent guy, too.”

  Don raised his brows. “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”

  “Well, Mary spoke so highly of him. Yes, he was her brother. But after Ken’s wife died, he was the sole provider and caretaker of their son.” Katie shrugged. “I could be totally wrong, but I get the feeling that the only malevolent person in that family is Paul.”

  “Even at that,” Don said, “do you believe Paul was ruthless enough to kill his own brother?”

  “I have no idea,” Katie admitted. “The man appears to be devoted to his family, but he sure threatens me every chance he gets. He’s the first person I’ve ever met who can turn what would appear to be an innocuous conversation into a warning.”

  “Is it possible that you’re misconstruing Paul’s comments because you find the man intimidating?” Don asked.

  Nick playfully swatted Don’s shoulder. “Honey, this is Katie we’re talking about. Nothing intimidates her.”

  “Thanks, Nick,” she said with a smile. “But, no, Don, I don’t think that’s it. I mean, Paul came to my home and threatened me . . . remember? And then he somehow made it look to Detective Schuler as if I were the bad guy.”

  “That’s right.” Nick rubbed his chin. “I wonder if Schuler is playing a bigger part in this whole situation than we realize.”

  Before the trio could debate that issue, Brad arrived. He was carrying the envelope Katie saw Regan delivering. Like Regan, Brad clasped the envelope behind his back, as if he didn’t want them to see it.

  “Good afternoon. You weren’t meeting in here to talk about me, were you?” Brad teased.

  “We were,” Nick said. “And now you’ve gone and spoiled it.”

  “Did Regan find Roger a nice assortment of cookies?” Katie asked. “I ran into her when she was on her way to Tealicious.”

  “Yes, she certainly did. I imagine he was pleased with them. And I gave her a discount. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Thank you. I wanted to buy him the cookies myself to express my appreciation for him fixing my lamp and passing along John Healy’s information, but Regan insisted on getting them.”

  Brad nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go upstairs to shower and change.”

  Hoping she’d given him enough time to get out of earshot, Katie asked Nick and Don if they were aware that Brad and Paul Fenton had struck up a friendship.

  The men exchanged a loaded glance before Don answered, “Uh . . . no.”

  An awkward silence fell. Did Don look just a teensy bit guilty?

  “Would you like to stay for dinner?” Nick asked.

  “No, thanks. I need to be going,” Katie said. “I’m guessing you have everything ready for Fiona’s stay?”

  “She’s in her favorite room.” Nick smiled. “She never asks for much more than that.”

  “Easy to please . . . that’s nice.”

  “Nicer than you could possibly imagine,” Don said. “Be careful walking home.”

  Katie’s walk back across the empty Square to her apartment was perceptibly slower than the walk to Sassy Sally’s had been. And while she was much less driven by emotion, she had even more to consider than she’d had before. She’d never imagined that Detective Schuler could be colluding with Paul Fenton. That would certainly explain why the man was determined to find Ray guilty of Ken Fenton’s murder.

  And what about Brad’s friendship with Fenton? Don and Nick—or, rather Don—had claimed not to know anything about it, but they’d behaved suspiciously. Did the couple know more than they were letting on? If so, why hide it?

  When she neared Angelo’s Pizzeria, Katie could see Andy and Erikka working shoulder to shoulder, smiling at each other, their moves so well coordinated they appeared to have been choreographed. She sighed. Andy was right—he and Erikka made an excellent team.

  Katie enjoyed cooking. She wondered if she’d be as happy working at Andy’s side on a daily basis as Erikka seemed to be. She didn’t know . . . but she didn’t think she would. She prized her positions of authority at Artisans Alley and Tealicious. She would never again play “first mate” to Andy’s—or anyone else’s—“captain.”

  * * *

  —

  On Sunday morning, when Katie left her apartment for Artisans Alley, she saw Rose emerge from the back parking lot in her trainers, pumping her arms as she walked. Katie scrambled to catch up and fell into step beside her.

  “Good morning, Katie.”

  “Hi, Rose. Did the doctor clear you for walking?” Katie asked.

  “Yes, and I’m only doing one lap,” Rose answered. “I don’t want to overdo it, but I do feel well enough to resume my training.”

  “That’s terrific. I’ll keep you company if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all. I’m glad to have somebody to converse with.”

  Katie had kept a furtive eye on the vendors because of the pill she’d found on the floor. Did anyone appear to be hiding anything? Was there anyone who wouldn’t meet her gaze? Because of what Ray had told her, Katie didn’t bring up the pill to Rose, and Rose seemed to have forgotten about it.

  “Rose, what’s your opinion of Detective Schuler?”

  “I don’t really know the man,” Rose said, “but I guess he’s all right. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just having doubts about him since he turned that whole Paul Fenton situation around on me. Honestly, the man harasses me in my own home, I call the police, and they tell me that Paul has taken out a complaint against me? There’s nothing right about that. Ray would have handled that incident much better.”

  “Well, sure he would have. Ray has a thing for you.”

  “He does not! And even if he did, he wouldn’t have let that color his work.”

  Rose raised her eyebrows but simply kept walking.

  Katie’s steps faltered as she tried to make her case. “Ray would’ve warned me to stay away from Ken’s family—just as Schuler did—but Ray would’ve taken the threat against me seriously. I can’t help but wonder if . . . I don’t know . . . if Detective Schuler and Paul Fenton are friends or something.”

  “I imagine they could be,” Rose said. “Or it could just be that Detective Schuler doesn’t fancy you, dear. He is married, you know.”

  “Rose, tell me truthfully—do you think I was wrong to feel threatened by Paul Fenton the
night he came to my home?”

  “Of course not. I’m trying to be objective, that’s all. I can’t help but wonder if you got so used to Ray’s treatment of you that it’s made you believe Detective Schuler is biased in Paul’s favor.”

  “I don’t think that’s it. When Ray and I first met, even though we didn’t always get along, I always considered him to be fair.”

  “That’s not quite how I remember things. Might you be wearing rose-colored glasses?” Rose suggested.

  “I don’t think so,” Katie said, but the truth was she and Ray had not become friends until after he’d retired the summer before. A lot had happened since then.

  Rose held up her hands. “I promise, I’m only playing devil’s advocate to help you sort it all out in your own mind.”

  “Yeah . . . thanks, Rose.”

  After walking a lap with Rose, Katie went to her office. Was Rose right about Paul successfully playing the system once, or was there more to it? Was Detective Schuler in cahoots with Paul Fenton in whatever illegal activities in which the tattoo artist might be involved? Did Schuler have some sort of personal grudge against Ray? Or was Katie making a mountain out of a molehill?

  She wasn’t sure—not at all.

  * * *

  —

  Since Artisans Alley was not terribly busy that Sunday morning, Katie decided to set aside all the detritus from her mind and concentrate on the one thing she thought could do some good—finding out more about Ken Fenton. Mary had said Ken had a college-aged son named Avery. And college-aged young men have social media pages. Katie did a search and found Avery’s page within seconds.

  There were a lot of photos of Avery with his dad, a few of him with Aunt Mary, but none of Avery with Uncle Paul.

  Interesting.

  Katie scrolled down the page and scanned the notes of sympathy Avery’s friends had left about Ken’s death. She felt a twinge of guilt at the impropriety of reading the young man’s messages, but she reasoned that they were on a public forum. It wasn’t like she was reading his email.

  One message stood out to her. It was written by someone calling himself Racecardriver42, and it said: “I’m sorry about your dad. He was a good guy—always keeping your uncle Paul and me out of trouble . . . or, at least, trying to. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”